PS 
1522 

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DESERTER 


RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


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DAVIS 


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Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute        The  Lifted  Bandage 
The  Courage  of  the         The  Counsel  Assigned 
Commonplace  Old  Glory 

Maltbie  Davenport  Babcock 
The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Richard  Harding  Davis 
The  Deserter      The  Consul      The  Boy  Scout 

Marion  Harland 
Looking  Westward 

Robert  Herrick 
The  Master  of  the  Inn    The  Conscript  Mother 

Frederick  Landis 
The  Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill 

Francis  E.  Leupp 
A  Day  with  Father 

Alice  Duer  Miller 
Things 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

The  Stranger's  Pew 
The  Shepherd  Who  Watched  by  Night 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
A  Christmas  Sermon  Prayers  Written  at 

2Es  Triplex  Vailima 

Father  Damien 

Isobel  Strong 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Henry  van  Dyke 

The  School  of  Life    The  Spirit  of  Christmas 
The  Sad  Shepherd     The  First  Christmas  Tree 
The  Lost  Word 


THE  DESERTER 


THE    DESERTER 


BY 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
BY 

JOHN  T.  McCUTCHEON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1917 


LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,  1916,  1917,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  October,  1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  Mr.  Davis  wrote  the  story  of 
"The  Deserter,"  he  could  not  possibly 
have  foreseen  that  it  was  to  be  his  last 
story — the  last  of  those  short  stories 
which  gave  him  such  eminence  as  a 
short-story  writer. 

He  apparently  was  as  rugged  and  as 
vigorous  as  ever. 

And  yet,  had  he  sat  down  to  write  a 
story  which  he  knew  was  to  be  his  last, 
I  do  not  think  he  could  have  written 
one  more  fittingly  designed  to  be  the 
capstone  of  his  literary  monument. 
The  theme  is  one  in  which  he  has  un 
consciously  mirrored  his  own  ideals  of 
honorable  obligation,  as  well  as  one 
which  presents  a  wholesome  lesson  to 
young  soldiers  who  have  taken  an  oath 
to  do  faithful  service  to  a  nation, 
[v] 


INTRODUCTION 

It  is  a  story  with  a  moral  so  subtly 
expressed  that  every  soldier  or  sailor 
who  reads  it  will  think  seriously  of  it 
if  the  temptation  to  such  disloyalty 
should  enter  his  mind.  This  story  of 
the  young  man  who  tried  to  desert  at 
Salonika  may  well  have  a  heartening 
influence  upon  all  men  in  uniforms  who 
waver  in  the  path  of  duty — especially  in 
these  days  of  vast  military  operations 
when  a  whole  world  is  in  arms.  It  be 
longs  in  patriotic  literature  by  the  side 
of  Edward  Everett  Hale's  "The  Man 
Without  a  Country."  The  motif  is  the 
same — that  of  obligation  and  service 
and  loyalty  to  a  pledge. 

In  "The  Deserter"  Mr.  Davis  does 
not  reveal  the  young  soldier's  name,  for 
obvious  reasons,  and  the  name  of  the 
hotel  and  ship  in  Salonika  are  likewise 
disguised.  It  is  part  of  the  art  of  the 
skilful  story-writer  to  dress  his  narra 
tive  in  such  a  way  as  to  eliminate  those 
matter-of-fact  details  which  would  be 
[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 

emphasized  by  one  writing  the  story  as 
a  matter  of  news.  For  instance,  the 
Hotel  Hermes  in  Mr.  Davis's  story  is 
the  Olympos  Palace  Hotel,  and  the 
Adriaticus  is  the  Greek  steamer  Helleni. 
The  name  of  the  young  soldier  is  given 
as  "Hamlin,"  and  under  this  literary 
"camouflage,"  to  borrow  a  word  born 
of  the  war,  the  story  may  be  read  with 
out  the  thought  that  a  certain  definite 
young  man  will  be  humiliated  by  seeing 
his  own  name  revealed  as  that  of  a 
potential  deserter. 

But  the  essentials  of  the  story  are  all 
true,  and  its  value  as  a  lasting  influence 
for  good  is  in  no  way  impaired  by  the 
necessary  fictions  as  to  places  and  iden 
tities. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  see  the  dra 
matic  incidents  of  the  story  of  "The 
Deserter"  as  they  unfolded  during  the 
time  included  in  Mr.  Davis's  story. 
The  setting  was  in  the  huge  room — 
chamber,  living-room,  workroom,  club- 
[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 

room,  and  sometimes  dining-room  that 
we  occupied  in  the  Olympos  Palace  Ho 
tel  in  Salonika.  William  G.  Shepherd, 
of  the  United  Press,  James  H.  Hare,  the 
veteran  war  photographer,  and  I  were 
the  original  occupants  of  this  room, 
which  owed  its  vast  dimensions  to  the 
fact  that  it  formerly  had  been  the  din 
ing-room  of  the  hotel,  later  the  head 
quarters  of  the  Austrian  Club,  and  fi 
nally,  under  the  stressful  conditions  of 
an  overcrowded  city,  a  bedroom.  Mr. 
Davis  joined  us  here  in  November  of 
1915,  and  for  some  days  shared  the 
room  until  he  could  secure  another  in 
the  same  hotel. 

The  city  was  seething  with  huge  ac 
tivities.  We  lived  from  day  to  day, 
not  knowing  what  moment  some  dis 
aster  might  result  as  a  consequence  of 
an  incongruous  military  and  political 
situation,  in  which  German  and  Aus 
trian  consular  officials  walked  the  streets 
side  by  side  with  French  and  British 
[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 

officers.  Men  who  had  lived  through 
many  strange  situations  declared  that 
this  motley  of  tongues  and  nationalities 
and  conflicting  interests  to  be  found  in 
Salonika  during  those  last  weeks  of 
1915  was  without  a  parallel  in  their 
experiences. 

Into  this  atmosphere  occasionally 
came  the  little  human  dramas  that 
were  a  welcome  novelty  beside  the  big 
drama  that  dominated  the  picture,  and 
it  was  thus  that  the  drama  of  the 
young  soldier  who  wished  to  desert 
came  into  our  lives  as  a  gripping,  human 
document. 

To  Mr.  Davis  the  drama  was  more 
than  a  "news"  story;  it  was  something 
big  and  fundamental,  involving  a  young 
man's  whole  future,  and  as  such  it 
revealed  to  his  quick  instinct  for  dra 
matic  situations  the  theme  for  a  big 
story. 

No  sooner  had  "Hamlin"  left  our 
room,  reclad  in  his  dirty  uniform  and 
[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 

headed  for  certain  punishment  back  at 
his  camp,  than  Mr.  Davis  proclaimed 
his  intention  to  write  the  story. 

"The  best  war  story  I  ever  knew!" 
he  exclaimed. 

Of  course  the  young  soldier  did  not 
see  it  as  a  drama  in  real  life,  and  he  cer 
tainly  did  not  comprehend  that  he  might 
be  playing  a  part  in  what  would  be 
a  tragedy  in  his  own  life.  To  him  the 
incident  had  no  dramatic  possibilities. 
He  was  merely  a  young  man  who  had 
been  racked  by  exposure  and  suffering 
to  a  point  where  he  longed  to  escape  a 
continuance  of  such  hardship,  and  the 
easiest  way  out  of  it  seemed  by  way  of 
deserting. 

He  was  "fed  up"  on  discomfort  and 
dirt  and  cold,  and  harassed  by  the 
effects  of  an  ill-healed  wound  received 
in  Flanders  some  months  before,  and 
he  wanted  to  go  home. 

The  story,  as  Mr.  Davis  tells  it  in 
the  following  pages,  is  complete  as  it 


INTKODUCTION 

stands.  So  far  as  he  knew  up  to  the 
time  of  his  death,  there  was  no  sequel. 
He  died  thinking  of  "Hamlin"  as  a 
potential  deserter  who  had  been  shamed 
out  of  his  purpose  to  desert  and  who 
had  left,  ungrateful  and  bitter  with 
resentment  at  his  fellow  Americans, 
who  had  persuaded  him  to  go  back  to 
camp,  "take  his  medicine,"  and  "see  it 
through." 

The  Hotel  "Hermes"  is  probably  no 
more.  Only  a  few  days  ago  the  news 
came  that  all  of  the  water-front  of  Sa 
lonika,  a  district  stretching  in  splendid 
array  from  the  "White  Tower"  to  the 
Customs  House,  had  been  wiped  out  by 
a  tremendous  fire.  It  was  in  this  dis 
trict  that  most  of  the  finest  buildings, 
including  the  Olympos  Palace  Hotel — 
the  Hotel  Hermes  of  Mr.  Davis's  story 
— were  located,  and  there  is  little  like 
lihood  that  any  of  this  part  of  the  city 
escaped.  The  magnitude  of  the  fire  is 
indicated  by  the  estimated  loss,  which 
[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 

is  $100,000,000,  with  about  $26,000,000 
insurance. 

The  government  has  authorized  the 
construction  of  barracks  outside  the 
burned  zone,  but  has  decided  not  to  per 
mit  repairs  or  temporary  construction 
within  that  area  until  plans  for  rebuild 
ing  the  city  are  complete. 

Thus  the  setting  of  the  story  of  "The 
Deserter"  is  gone,  the  author  is  gone, 
and  who  can  tell  at  this  moment  whether 
"Hamlin,"  fighting  in  the  trenches  on 
the  British  front  in  France,  is  not  also 
gone. 

I  hope  it  may  not  affect  the  interest 
or  the  moral  of  the  story  if  I  give  the 
sequel.  I  know  that  Mr.  Davis  would 
have  been  glad  to  hear  what  became  of 
the  young  man  who  left  our  room  with 
an  angry  word  of  resentment  against  us. 
I  hope,  too,  that  the  reader  will  feel  a 
natural  interest  in  knowing  how  he 
fared,  and  what  punishment  he  received 
for  having  overstayed  his  leave,  and  for 
[xii] 


INTRODUCTION 

shaving  his  mustache  as  part  of  his  plan 
to  escape  detection,  both  of  which  in 
fractions  made  him  subject  to  punish 
ment. 

One  day  about  three  weeks  after 
Davis  had  left  Salonika  homeward 
bound,  a  soldier  brought  us  a  note  from 
"Hamlin."  He  was  on  a  Red  Cross 
lighter  down  at  the  pier,  and  we  at  once 
went  down  to  see  him.  He  was  lying 
on  a  stretcher  among  scores  of  men. 
His  face  was  thin  and  pale,  and  in  an 
swer  to  our  eager  questions  he  told 
how  he  had  fared  when  he  returned  to 
camp. 

"Oh,  they  gave  it  to  me  good,"  he 
said.  "But  they  still  think  I  got  drunk. 
They  took  away  my  stripes  and  made 
me  a  private.  But  I  was  sick  the  night 
I  got  back  to  camp  and  I've  been  laid 
up  ever  since.  They  say  there  is  some 
thing  the  matter  with  my  intestines  and 
they're  going  to  cut  me  open  again. 
Gee,  but  the  captain  was  surprised !  He 
[xiii] 


INTRODUCTION 

said  he  had  always  counted  on  me  as  a 
teetotaller  and  that  he  was  grieved  and 
disappointed  in  me.  And  just  think, 
I've  never  taken  a  drink  in  my  life !" 

We  said  good-by,  and  this  time  it 
was  a  friendly  good-by.  That  night  he 
left  on  a  hospital  ship  for  Alexandria. 

Once  more  the  course  of  young  Mr. 
"HamlinV  life  was  swallowed  up  in 
the  vast  oblivion  of  army  life,  and  we 
heard  no  more  of  him  until,  one  day  in 
London,  three  months  later,  Shepherd 
felt  an  arm  thrown  about  his  shoulder 
and  turned  to  find  the  healthy  and 
cheerful  face  of  "Hamlin." 

A  few  minutes  later,  at  a  luncheon- 
table,  Shepherd  heard  his  story. 

After  leaving  Alexandria  he  was  sent 
to  a  hospital  in  Manchester.  On  the 
day  of  his  discharge  he  was  asked  to 
report  to  a  certain  major,  who  informed 
him  that  the  government  had  conferred 
upon  him  the  D.  C.  M. — the  medal  for 
Distinguished  Conduct  in  the  field — in 
[xiv] 


INTRODUCTION 

recognition  of  his  service  in  recovering 
a  wounded  man  from  No  Man's  land  in 
Flanders  ten  months  before.  The  fol 
lowing  day,  before  a  file  of  soldiers 
drawn  up  on  the  parade-ground,  the 
honor  was  officially  conferred  and  a  lit 
tle  ribbon  was  pinned  upon  his  coat  to 
testify  to  the  appreciative,  though  some 
what  tardy,  gratitude  of  the  govern 
ment. 

"Hamlin"  pointed  to  the  little  ribbon 
on  his  lapel  and  proudly  drew  from  his 
pocket  an  official  paper  in  which  his 
heroic  achievement  was  duly  recited. 

He  had  not  heard  of  Da  vis's  death, 
and  was  deeply  touched  when  Mr.  Shep 
herd  told  him  of  it.  At  once  he  ex 
pressed  his  endless  gratitude  to  Davis 
and  the  rest  of  us  for  what  we  had  done 
for  him  in  Salonika. 

In  a  few  days  he  was  to  return  to 
France  with  his  regiment.  What  has 
happened  to  him  since  then  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing.  His  movements  are 

[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 

again  wrapped  in  that  dense  fog  which 
veils  the  soldier's  life  to  all  the  outside 
world  except  those  to  whom  he  writes. 
In  view  of  what  we  now  know  of 
Hamlin's  physical  condition  at  the  time 
his  mind  was  obsessed  with  the  idea  of 
deserting,  both  Mr.  Shepherd  and  I  are 
glad  to  believe  that  his  decision  to  de 
sert  was  the  consequence  of  physical 
rather  than  mental  or  moral  weakness, 
for  his  stamina  was  at  its  lowest  ebb 
because  of  a  weakened  body. 

JOHN  T.  McCuTCHEON. 

CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS, 
September  15,  1917. 


[xvi] 


THE  DESERTER 


THE  DESERTER 

IN  Salonika,  the  American  consul, 
the  Standard  Oil  man,  and  the 
war  correspondents  formed  the 
American  colony.  The  correspon 
dents  were  waiting  to  go  to  the 
front.  Incidentally,  as  we  waited, 
the  front  was  coming  rapidly  toward 
us.  There  was  "Uncle"  Jim,  the 
veteran  of  many  wars,  and  of  all 
the  correspondents,  in  experience 
the  oldest  and  in  spirit  the  youngest, 
and  there  was  the  Kid,  and  the 
Artist.  The  Kid  jeered  at  us,  and 
proudly  described  himself  as  the 
only  Boy  Reporter  who  jumped 
from  a  City  Hall  assignment  to 

[3] 


THE  DESERTER 

cover  a  European  War.  "I  don't 
know  strategy,"  he  would  boast; 
"neither  does  the  Man  at  Home. 
He  wants  'human  interest'  stuff, 
and  I  give  him  what  he  wants.  I 
write  exclusively  for  the  subway 
guard  and  the  farmers  in  the  wheat 
belt.  When  you  fellows  write  about 
the  'Situation,'  they  don't  under 
stand  it.  Neither  do  you.  Neither 
does  Venizelos  or  the  King.  I  don't 
understand  it  myself.  So,  I  write 
my  people  heart-to-heart  talks  about 
refugees  and  wounded,  and  what 
kind  of  ploughs  the  Servian  peas 
ants  use,  and  that  St.  Paul  wrote 
his  letters  to  the  Thessalonians  from 
the  same  hotel  where  I  write  mine; 
and  I  tell  'em  to  pronounce  Salo 
nika  'eeka,'  and  not  put  the  accent 
on  the  'on.'  This  morning  at  the 
[4] 


THE  DESERTER 

refugee  camp  I  found  all  the  little 
Servians  of  the  Frothingham  unit 
in  American  Boy  Scout  uniforms. 
That's  my  meat.  That's  'home 
week'  stuff.  You  fellows  write  for 
the  editorial  page;  and  nobody  reads 
it.  I  write  for  the  man  that  turns 
first  to  Mutt  and  Jeff,  and  then 
looks  to  see  where  they  are  running 
the  new  Charlie  Chaplin  release. 
When  that  man  has  to  choose  be 
tween  'our  military  correspondent' 
and  the  City  Hall  Reporter,  he 
chooses  me!" 

The  third  man  was  John,  "Our 
Special  Artist."  John  could  write 
a  news  story,  too,  but  it  was  the 
cartoons  that  had  made  him  famous. 
They  were  not  comic  page,  but  front 
page  cartoons,  and  before  making 
up  their  minds  what  they  thought, 

[5] 


THE  DESERTER 

people  waited  to  see  what  their 
Artist  thought.  So,  it  was  fortunate 
his  thoughts  were  as  brave  and  clean 
as  they  were  clever.  He  was  the 
original  Little  Brother  to  the  Poor. 
He  was  always  giving  away  money. 
When  we  caught  him,  he  would  pre 
varicate.  He  would  say  the  man 
was  a  college  chum,  that  he  had 
borrowed  the  money  from  him,  and 
that  this  was  the  first  chance  he 
had  had  to  pay  it  back.  The  Kid 
suggested  it  was  strange  that  so 
many  of  his  college  chums  should 
at  the  same  moment  turn  up,  dead 
broke,  in  Salonika,  and  that  half  of 
them  should  be  women. 

John     smiled     disarmingly.     "It 

was  a  large  college,"  he  explained, 

"and    coeducational."     There    were 

other  Americans;    Red   Cross   doc- 

[6] 


THE  DESERTER 

tors  and  nurses  just  escaped  through 
the  snow  from  the  Bulgars,  and  hy 
phenated  Americans  who  said  they 
had  taken  out  their  first  papers. 
They  thought  hyphenated  citizens 
were  so  popular  with  us,  that  we 
would  pay  their  passage  to  New 
York.  In  Salonika  they  were  tran 
sients.  They  had  no  local  standing. 
They  had  no  local  lying-down  place, 
either,  or  place  to  eat,  or  to  wash, 
although  they  did  not  look  as  though 
that  worried  them,  or  place  to  change 
their  clothes.  Or  clothes  to  change. 
It  was  because  we  had  clothes  to 
change,  and  a  hotel  bedroom,  in 
stead  of  a  bench  in  a  cafe,  that  we 
were  ranked  as  residents  and  from 
the  Greek  police  held  a  "permission 
to  sojourn."  Our  American  colony 
was  a  very  close  corporation.  We 

[7] 


THE  DESERTER 

were  only  six  Americans  against 
300,000  British,  French,  Greek,  and 
Servian  soldiers,  and  120,000  civilian 
Turks,  Spanish  Jews,  Armenians, 
Persians,  Egyptians,  Albanians,  and 
Arabs,  and  some  twenty  more  other 
races  that  are  not  listed.  We  had 
arrived  in  Salonika  before  the  rush, 
and  at  the  Hotel  Hermes  on  the 
water-front  had  secured  a  vast  room. 
The  edge  of  the  stone  quay  was  not 
forty  feet  from  us,  the  only  landing 
steps  directly  opposite  our  balcony. 
Everybody  who  arrived  on  the 
Greek  passenger  boats  from  Naples 
or  the  Piraeus,  or  who  had  shore 
leave  from  a  man-of-war,  transport, 
or  hospital  ship,  was  raked  by  our 
cameras.  There  were  four  windows 
— one  for  each  of  us  and  his  work- 
table.  It  was  not  easy  to  work. 

[8] 


THE  DESERTER 

What  was  the  use?  The  pictures 
and  stories  outside  the  windows 
fascinated  us,  but  when  we  sketched 
them  or  wrote  about  them,  they 
only  proved  us  inadequate.  All  day 
long  the  pinnaces,  cutters,  gigs, 
steam  launches  shoved  and  bumped 
against  the  stone  steps,  marines 
came  ashore  for  the  mail,  stewards 
for  fruit  and  fish,  Red  Cross  nurses 
to  shop,  tiny  midshipmen  to  visit  the 
movies,  and  the  sailors  and  officers  of 
the  Russian,  French,  British,  Italian, 
and  Greek  war-ships  to  stretch  their 
legs  in  the  park  of  the  Tour  Blanche, 
or  to  cramp  them  under  a  cafe  table. 
Sometimes  the  ambulances  blocked 
the  quay  and  the  wounded  and  frost 
bitten  were  lifted  into  the  motor- 
boats,  and  sometimes  a  squad  of 
marines  lined  the  landing  stage,  and 

[9] 


THE  DESERTER 

as  a  coffin  under  a  French  or  English 
flag  was  borne  up  the  stone  steps 
stood  at  salute.  So  crowded  was 
the  harbor  that  the  oars  of  the  boat 
men  interlocked. 

Close  to  the  stone  quay,  stretched 
along  the  three-mile  circle,  were  the 
fishing  smacks,  beyond  them,  so  near 
that  the  anchor  chains  fouled,  were 
the  passenger  ships  with  gigantic 
Greek  flags  painted  on  their  sides, 
and  beyond  them  transports  from 
Marseilles,  Malta,  and  Suvla  Bay, 
black  colliers,  white  hospital  ships, 
burning  green  electric  lights,  red- 
bellied  tramps  and  freighters,  and, 
hemming  them  in,  the  grim,  mouse- 
colored  destroyers,  submarines,  cruis 
ers,  dreadnaughts.  At  times,  like  a 
wall,  the  cold  fog  rose  between  us 
and  the  harbor,  and  again  the  cur- 
no] 


THE  DESERTER 

tain  would  suddenly  be  ripped  asun 
der,  and  the  sun  would  flash  on  the 
brass  work  of  the  fleet,  on  the  white 
wings  of  the  aeroplanes,  on  the  snow- 
draped  shoulders  of  Mount  Olym 
pus.  We  often  speculated  as  to 
how  in  the  early  days  the  gods  and 
goddesses,  dressed  as  they  were,  or 
as  they  were  not,  survived  the  snows 
of  Mount  Olympus.  Or  was  it  only 
their  resort  for  the  summer? 

It  got  about  that  we  had  a  vast 
room  to  ourselves,  where  one  might 
obtain  a  drink,  or  a  sofa  for  the  night, 
or  even  money  to  cable  for  money. 
So,  we  had  many  strange  visitors, 
some  half  starved,  half  frozen,  with 
terrible  tales  of  the  Albanian  trail, 
of  the  Austrian  prisoners  fallen  by 
the  wayside,  of  the  mountain  passes 
heaped  with  dead,  of  the  doctors  and 
[ill 


THE  DESERTER 

nurses  wading  waist-high  in  snow 
drifts  and  for  food  killing  the  ponies. 
Some  of  our  visitors  wanted  to  get 
their  names  in  the  American  papers 
so  that  the  folks  at  home  would 
know  they  were  still  alive,  others 
wanted  us  to  keep  their  names  out 
of  the  papers,  hoping  the  police 
would  think  them  dead;  another, 
convinced  it  was  of  pressing  news 
value,  desired  us  to  advertise  the 
fact  that  he  had  invented  a  poison 
ous  gas  for  use  in  the  trenches.  With 
difficulty  we  prevented  him  from 
casting  it  adrift  in  our  room.  Or, 
he  had  for  sale  a  second-hand  motor 
cycle,  or  he  would  accept  a  position 
as  barkeeper,  or  for  five  francs  would 
sell  a  state  secret  that,  once  made 
public,  in  a  month  would  end  the 
war.  It  seemed  cheap  at  the  price. 


THE  DESERTER 

Each  of  us  had  his  "scouts"  to 
bring  him  the  bazaar  rumor,  the 
Turkish  bath  rumor,  the  cafe  ru 
mor.  Some  of  our  scouts  journeyed 
as  far  afield  as  Monastir  and  Doiran, 
returning  to  drip  snow  on  the  floor, 
and  to  tell  us  tales,  one-half  of  which 
we  refused  to  believe,  and  the  other 
half  the  censor  refused  to  pass. 
With  each  other's  visitors  it  was 
etiquette  not  to  interfere.  It  would 
have  been  like  tapping  a  private 
wire.  When  we  found  John  sketch 
ing  a  giant  stranger  in  a  cap  and 
coat  of  wolf  skin  we  did  not  seek 
to  know  if  he  were  an  Albanian 
brigand,  or  a  Servian  prince  incog 
nito,  and  when  a  dark  Levantine  sat 
close  to  the  Kid,  whispering,  and 
the  Kid  banged  on  his  typewriter, 
we  did  not  listen. 

[13] 


THE  DESERTER 

So,  when  I  came  in  one  afternoon 
and  found  a  strange  American  youth 
writing  at  John's  table,  and  no  one 
introduced  us,  I  took  it  for  granted 
he  had  sold  the  Artist  an  "exclusive" 
story,  and  asked  no  questions.  But 
I  could  not  help  hearing  what  they 
said.  Even  though  I  tried  to  drown 
their  voices  by  beating  on  the  Kid's 
typewriter.  I  was  taking  my  third 
lesson,  and  I  had  printed,  "I  Amm 
5w  writjng  This,  5wjth  my  own 
lilly  w?ite  handS,"  when  I  heard 
the  Kid  saying: 

"You  can  beat  the  game  this  way. 
Let  John  buy  you  a  ticket  to  the 
Piraeus.  If  you  go  from  one  Greek 
port  to  another  you  don't  need  a 
vise.  But,  if  you  book  from  here 
to  Italy,  you  must  get  a  permit 
from  the  Italian  consul,  and  our 

[14] 


THE  DESERTER 

consul,  and  the  police.  The  plot 
is  to  get  out  of  the  war  zone,  isn't 
it?  Well,  then,  my  dope  is  to  get 
out  quick,  and  map  the  rest  of  your 
trip  when  you're  safe  in  Athens." 

It  was  no  business  of  mine,  but  I 
had  to  look  up.  The  stranger  was 
now  pacing  the  floor.  I  noticed  that 
while  his  face  was  almost  black  with 
tan,  his  upper  lip  was  quite  white. 
I  noticed  also  that  he  had  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  one  of  John's  blue 
serge  suits,  and  that  the  pink  silk 
shirt  he  wore  was  one  that  once  had 
belonged  to  the  Kid.  Except  for 
the  pink  shirt,  in  the  appearance  of 
the  young  man  there  was  nothing 
unusual.  He  was  of  a  familiar  type. 
He  looked  like  a  young  business 
man  from  our  Middle  West,  matter- 
of-fact  and  unimaginative,  but  capa- 

[15J 


THE  DESERTER 

ble  and  self-reliant.  If  he  had  had 
a  fountain  pen  in  his  upper  waist 
coat  pocket,  I  would  have  guessed 
he  was  an  insurance  agent,  or  the 
publicity  man  for  a  new  automobile. 
John  picked  up  his  hat,  and  said, 
"That's  good  advice.  Give  me  your 
steamer  ticket,  Fred,  and  I'll  have 
them  change  it."  He  went  out; 
but  he  did  not  ask  Fred  to  go  with 
him. 

Uncle  Jim  rose,  and  murmured 
something  about  the  Cafe  Roma, 
and  tea.  But  neither  did  he  invite 
Fred  to  go  with  him.  Instead,  he 
told  him  to  make  himself  at  home, 
and  if  he  wanted  anything  the  waiter 
would  bring  it  from  the  cafe  down 
stairs.  Then  the  Kid,  as  though 
he  also  was  uncomfortable  at  being 
left  alone  with  us,  hurried  to  the 

[16] 


THE  DESERTER 

door.  "Going  to  get  you  a  suit 
case,"  he  explained.  "Back  in  five 
minutes." 

The  stranger  made  no  answer. 
Probably  he  did  not  hear  him.  Not 
a  hundred  feet  from  our  windows 
three  Greek  steamers  were  huddled 
together,  and  the  eyes  of  the  Ameri 
can  were  fixed  on  them.  The  one 
for  which  John  had  gone  to  buy 
him  a  new  ticket  lay  nearest.  She 
was  to  sail  in  two  hours.  Impati 
ently,  in  short  quick  steps,  the 
stranger  paced  the  length  of  the 
room,  but  when  he  turned  and  so 
could  see  the  harbor,  he  walked 
slowly,  devouring  it  with  his  eyes. 
For  some  time,  in  silence,  he  re 
peated  this  manoeuvre;  and  then 
the  complaints  of  the  typewriter 
disturbed  him.  He  halted  and  ob- 
[17] 


THE  DESERTER 

served  my  struggles.  Under  his 
scornful  eye,  in  my  embarrassment 
I  frequently  hit  the  right  letter. 
"You  a  newspaper  man,  too?"  he 
asked.  I  boasted  I  was,  but  begged 
not  to  be  judged  by  my  typewriting. 

"I  got  some  great  stories  to  write 
when  I  get  back  to  God's  country," 
he  announced.  "I  was  a  reporter 
for  two  years  in  Kansas  City  before 
the  war,  and  now  I'm  going  back  to 
lecture  and  write.  I  got  enough 
material  to  keep  me  at  work  for 
five  years.  All  kinds  of  stuff — spe 
cials,  fiction  stories,  personal  experi 
ences,  maybe  a  novel." 

I  regarded  him  with  envy.  For 
the  correspondents  in  the  greatest 
of  all  wars  the  pickings  had  been 
meagre.  "You  are  to  be  congratu 
lated,"  I  said.  He  brushed  aside 

[18] 


THE  DESERTER 

my  congratulations.  "For  what?" 
he  demanded.  "I  didn't  go  after 
the  stories;  they  came  to  me.  The 
things  I  saw  I  had  to  see.  Couldn't 
get  away  from  them.  I've  been 
with  the  British,  serving  in  the 
R.  A.  M.  C.  Been  hospital  steward, 
stretcher  bearer,  ambulance  driver. 
I've  been  sixteen  months  at  the 
front,  and  all  the  time  on  the  firing- 
line.  I  was  in  the  retreat  from 
Mons,  with  French  on  the  Marne, 
at  Ypres,  all  through  the  winter 
fighting  along  the  Canal,  on  the  Gal- 
lipoli  Peninsula,  and,  just  lately,  in 
Servia.  I've  seen  more  of  this  war 
than  any  soldier.  Because,  some 
times,  they  give  the  soldier  a  rest; 
they  never  give  the  medical  corps 
a  rest.  The  only  rest  I  got  was  when 
I  was  wounded." 

[19] 


THE  DESERTER 

He  seemed  no  worse  for  his 
wounds,  so  again  I  tendered  con 
gratulations.  This  time  he  accepted 
them.  The  recollection  of  the  things 
he  had  seen,  things  incredible,  ter 
rible,  unique  in  human  experience, 
had  stirred  him.  He  talked  on,  not 
boastfully,  but  in  a  tone,  rather,  of 
awe  and  disbelief,  as  though  assur 
ing  himself  that  it  was  really  he  to 
whom  such  things  had  happened. 

"I  don't  believe  there's  any  kind 
of  fighting  I  haven't  seen,"  he  de 
clared;  "hand-to-hand  fighting  with 
bayonets,  grenades,  gun  butts. 
I've  seen  'em  on  their  knees  in  the 
mud  choking  each  other,  beating 
each  other  with  their  bare  fists. 
I've  seen  every  kind  of  airship, 
bomb,  shell,  poison  gas,  every  kind 
of  wound.  Seen  whole  villages 

[20] 


THE  DESERTER 

turned  into  a  brickyard  in  twenty 
minutes;  in  Servia  seen  bodies  of 
women  frozen  to  death,  bodies  of 
babies  starved  to  death,  seen  men 
in  Belgium  swinging  from  trees; 
along  the  Yzer  for  three  months  I 
saw  the  bodies  of  men  I'd  known 
sticking  out  of  the  mud,  or  hung  up 
on  the  barb  wire,  with  the  crows 
picking  them. 

"I've  seen  some  of  the  nerviest 
stunts  that  ever  were  pulled  off  in 
history.  I've  seen  real  heroes.  Time 
and  time  again  I've  seen  a  man 
throw  away  his  life  for  his  officer, 
or  for  a  chap  he  didn't  know,  just 
as  though  it  was  a  cigarette  butt. 
I've  seen  the  women  nurses  of  our 
corps  steer  a  car  into  a  village  and 
yank  out  a  wounded  man  while 
shells  were  breaking  under  the  wheels 

[21] 


THE  DESERTER 

and  the  houses  were  pitching  into 
the  streets."  He  stopped  and 
laughed  consciously. 

"Understand,"  he  warned  me, 
"I'm  not  talking  about  myself,  only 
of  things  I've  seen.  The  things  I'm 
going  to  put  in  my  book.  It  ought 
to  be  a  pretty  good  book — what?" 

My  envy  had  been  washed  clean 
in  admiration% 

"It  will  make  a  wonderful  book," 
I  agreed.  "Are  you  going  to  syn 
dicate  it  first  ?" 

Young  Mr.  Hamlin  frowned  im 
portantly. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "of 
asking  John  for  letters  to  the  maga 
zine  editors.  So,  they'll  know  I'm 
not  faking,  that  I've  really  been 
through  it  all.  Letters  from  John 
would  help  a  lot."  Then  he  asked 

[22] 


THE  DESERTER 

anxiously:    "They  would,  wouldn't 
they?" 

I  reassured  him.  Remembering 
the  Kid's  gibes  at  John  and  his  nu 
merous  dependents,  I  said:  "You 
another  college  chum  of  John's?" 
The  young  man  answered  my  ques 
tion  quite  seriously.  "No,"  he  said; 
"John  graduated  before  I  entered; 
but  we  belong  to  the  same  fraternity. 
It  was  the  luckiest  chance  in  the 
world  my  finding  him  here.  There 
was  a  month-old  copy  of  the  Balkan 
News  blowing  around  camp,  and  his 
name  was  in  the  list  of  arrivals. 
The  moment  I  found  he  was  in  Sa 
lonika,  I  asked  for  twelve  hours' 
leave,  and  came  down  in  an  ambu 
lance.  I  made  straight  for  John; 
gave  him  the  grip,  and  put  it  up 
to  him  to  help  me." 

[23] 


THE  DESERTER 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 
"I  thought  you  were  sailing  on  the 
Adriaticus  ?  " 

The  young  man  was  again  pacing 
the  floor.  He  halted  and  faced  the 
harbor. 

"You  bet  I'm  sailing  on  the  Adri 
aticus,"  he  said.  He  looked  out  at 
that  vessel,  at  the  Blue  Peter  flying 
from  her  foremast,  and  grinned. 
"In  just  two  hours !" 

It  was  stupid  of  me,  but  I  still 
was  unenlightened.  "But  your 
twelve  hours'  leave?"  I  asked. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "They 
can  take  my  twelve  hours'  leave," 
he  said  deliberately,  "and  feed  it 
to  the  chickens.  I'm  beating  it." 

"What  d'you  mean,  you're  beat 
ing  it?" 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  mean?" 

[24] 


THE  DESERTER 

he  demanded.  "What  do  you  sup 
pose  I'm  doing  out  of  uniform, 
what  do  you  suppose  I'm  lying  low 
in  the  room  for?  So's  I  won't 
catch  cold?" 

"If  you're  leaving  the  army  with 
out  a  discharge,  and  without  per 
mission,"  I  said,  "I  suppose  you 
know  it's  desertion." 

Mr.  Hamlin  laughed  easily.  "It's 
not  my  army,"  he  said.  "I'm  an 
American." 

"It's  your  desertion,"  I  suggested. 

The  door  opened  and  closed  noise 
lessly,  and  Billy,  entering,  placed  a 
new  travelling  bag  on  the  floor.  He 
must  have  heard  my  last  words,  for 
he  looked  inquiringly  at  each  of  us. 
But  he  did  not  speak  and,  walking 
to  the  window,  stood  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  staring  out  at  the 

[25] 


THE  DESERTER 

harbor.  His  presence  seemed  to 
encourage  the  young  man.  "Who 
knows  I'm  deserting  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"No  one's  ever  seen  me  in  Salonika 
before,  and  in  these  'cits'  I  can  get 
on  board  all  right.  And  then  they 
can't  touch  me.  What  do  the  folks 
at  home  care  how  I  left  the  British 
army?  They'll  be  so  darned  glad 
to  get  me  back  alive  that  they  won't 
ask  if  I  walked  out  or  was  kicked 
out.  I  should  worry  ! " 

"It's  none  of  my  business,"  I 
began,  but  I  was  interrupted.  In 
his  restless  pacings  the  young  man 
turned  quickly. 

"As  you  say,"  he  remarked  icily, 
"it  is  none  of  your  business.  It's 
none  of  your  business  whether  I  get 
shot  as  a  deserter,  or  go  home, 

[26] 


THE  DESERTER 

"You  can  go  to  the  devil  for  all 
I  care,"  I  assured  him.  "I  wasn't 
considering  you  at  all.  I  was  only 
sorry  that  I'll  never  be  able  to  read 
your  book." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Hamlin  re 
mained  silent,  then  he  burst  forth 
with  a  jeer. 

"No  British  firing  squad,"  he 
boasted,  "will  ever  stand  me  up." 

"Maybe  not,"  I  agreed,  "but  you 
will  never  write  that  book." 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  this 
time  it  was  broken  by  the  Kid.  He 
turned  from  the  window  and  looked 
toward  Hamlin.  "That's  right!" 
he  said. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  at  the  deserter  pointed 
his  forefinger. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "this  war  is  some 

[27] 


THE  DESERTER 

war.  It's  the  biggest  war  in  his 
tory,  and  folks  will  be  talking  about 
nothing  else  for  the  next  ninety 
years;  folks  that  never  were  nearer 
it  than  Bay  City,  Mich.  But  you 
won't  talk  about  it.  And  you've 
been  all  through  it.  You've  been 
to  hell  and  back  again.  Compared 
with  what  you  know  about  hell, 
Dante  is  in  the  same  class  with  Dr. 
Cook.  But  you  won't  be  able  to 
talk  about  this  war,  or  lecture,  or 
write  a  book  about  it." 

"I  won't?"  demanded  Hamlin. 
"And  why  won't  I?" 

"Because  of  what  you're  doing 
now,"  said  Billy.  "Because  you're 
queering  yourself.  Now,  you've  got 
everything."  The  Kid  was  very 
much  in  earnest.  His  tone  was  in 
timate,  kind,  and  friendly.  ''You've 

[28] 


THE  DESERTER 

seen  everything,  done  everything. 
We'd  give  our  eye-teeth  to  see  what 
you've  seen,  and  to  write  the  things 
you  can  write.  You've  got  a  record 
now  that'll  last  you  until  you're 
dead,  and  your  grandchildren  are 
dead — and  then  some.  When  you 
talk  the  table  will  have  to  sit  up 
and  listen.  You  can  say  'I  was 
there.'  'I  was  in  it.'  'I  saw.'  'I 
know.'  When  this  war  is  over  you'll 
have  everything  out  of  it  that's 
worth  getting — all  the  experiences, 
all  the  inside  knowledge,  all  the 
'nosebag'  news;  you'll  have  wounds, 
honors,  medals,  money,  reputation. 
And  you're  throwing  all  that  away !" 

Mr.  Hamlin  interrupted  savagely. 

"To  hell  with  their  medals,"  he 
said.  "They  can  take  their  medals 
and  hang  'em  on  Christmas  trees. 

[29] 


THE  DESERTER 

I  don't  owe  the  British  army  any 
thing.  It  owes  me.  I've  done  my 
bit.  I've  earned  what  I've  got,  and 
there's  no  one  can  take  it  away  from 


me." 


"  You  can,"  said  the  Kid.  Before 
Ham! in  could  reply  the  door  opened 
and  John  came  in,  followed  by 
Uncle  Jim.  The  older  man  was 
looking  very  grave,  and  John  very 
unhappy.  Hamlin  turned  quickly 
to  John. 

"I  thought  these  men  were  friends 
of  yours,"  he  began,  "and  Ameri 
cans.  They're  fine  Americans. 
They're  as  full  of  human  kindness 
and  red  blood  as  a  kippered  her 
ring!" 

John  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
Kid. 

"He  wants  to  hang  himself,"  ex- 

[30] 


THE  DESERTER 

plained  Billy,  "and  because  we  tried 
to  cut  him  down,  he's  sore." 

"They  talked  to  me,"  protested 
Hamlin,  "as  though  I  was  a  yellow 
dog.  As  though  I  was  a  quitter. 
I'm  no  quitter!  But,  if  I'm  ready 
to  quit,  who's  got  a  better  right? 
I'm  not  an  Englishman,  but  there 
are  several  million  Englishmen 
haven't  done  as  much  for  England 
in  this  war  as  I  have.  What  do 
you  fellows  know  about  it?  You 
write  about  it,  about  the  'brave 
lads  in  the  trenches';  but  what  do 
you  know  about  the  trenches? 
What  you've  seen  from  automobiles. 
That's  all.  That's  where  you  get 
off!  I've  lived  in  the  trenches  for 
fifteen  months,  froze  in  'em,  starved 
in  'em,  risked  my  life  in  'em,  and 
I've  saved  other  lives,  too,  by  haul- 

131] 


THE  DESERTER 

ing  men  out  of  the  trenches.  And 
that's  no  airy  persiflage,  either !" 

He  ran  to  the  wardrobe  where 
John's  clothes  hung,  and  from  the 
bottom  of  it  dragged  a  khaki  uni 
form.  It  was  still  so  caked  with 
mud  and  snow  that  when  he  flung 
it  on  the  floor  it  splashed  like  a  wet 
bathing  suit.  "How  would  you  like 
to  wear  one  of  those  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"Stinking  with  lice  and  sweat  and 
blood;  the  blood  of  other  men,  the 
men  you've  helped  off  the  field, 
and  your  own  blood." 

As  though  committing  hara-kiri, 
he  slashed  his  hand  across  his  stom 
ach,  and  then  drew  it  up  from  his 
waist  to  his  chin.  "I'm  scraped 
with  shrapnel  from  there  to  there," 
said  Mr.  Hamlin.  "And  another 
time  I  got  a  ball  in  the  shoulder. 

[32] 


THE  DESERTER 

That  would  have  been  a  'blighty' 
for  a  fighting  man — they're  always 
giving  them  leave — but  all  I  got  was 
six  weeks  at  Havre  in  hospital. 
Then  it  was  the  Dardanelles,  and 
sunstroke  and  sand;  sleeping  in 
sand,  eating  sand,  sand  in  your 
boots,  sand  in  your  teeth;  hiding 
in  holes  in  the  sand  like  a  dirty 
prairie  dog.  And  then,  'Off  to  Ser- 
via ! '  And  the  next  act  opens  in 
the  snow  and  the  mud !  Cold  ? 
God,  how  cold  it  was !  And  most 
of  us  in  sun  helmets." 

As  though  the  cold  still  gnawed 
at  his  bones,  he  shivered. 

"It  isn't  the  danger,"  he  pro 
tested.  "It  isn't  that  I'm  getting 
away  from.  To  hell  with  the  danger  ! 
It's  just  the  plain  discomfort  of  it ! 
It's  the  never  being  your  own  mas- 

[33] 


THE  DESERTER 

ter,  never  being  clean,  never  being 
warm."  Again  he  shivered  and 
rubbed  one  hand  against  the  other. 
"There  were  no  bridges  over  the 
streams,"  he  went  on,  "and  we  had 
to  break  the  ice  and  wade  in,  and 
then  sleep  in  the  open  with  the 
khaki  frozen  to  us.  There  was  no 
firewood;  not  enough  to  warm  a 
pot  of  tea.  There  were  no  wounded; 
all  our  casualties  were  frost  bite  and 
pneumonia.  When  we  take  them 
out  of  the  blankets  their  toes  fall  off. 
We've  been  in  camp  for  a  month 
now  near  Doiran,  and  it's  worse 
there  than  on  the  march.  It's  a 
frozen  swamp.  You  can't  sleep  for 
the  cold;  can't  eat;  the  only  ration 
we  get  is  bully  beef,  and  our  insides 
are  frozen  so  damn  tight  we  can't 
digest  it.  The  cold  gets  into  your 

[34] 


THE  DESERTER 

blood,  gets  into  your  brains.  It 
won't  let  you  think;  or  else,  you 
think  crazy  things.  It  makes  you 
afraid."  He  shook  himself  like 
a  man  coming  out  of  a  bad 
dream. 

"So,  I'm  through,"  he  said.  In 
turn  he  scowled  at  each  of  us,  as 
though  defying  us  to  contradict 
him.  "That's  why  I'm  quitting," 
he  added.  "Because  I've  done  my 
bit.  Because  I'm  damn  well  fed 
up  on  it."  He  kicked  viciously  at 
the  water-logged  uniform  on  the 
floor.  "Any  one  who  wants  my 
job  can  have  it!"  He  walked  to 
the  window,  turned  his  back  on  us, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  hungrily  on  the 
Adriaticus.  There  was  a  long  pause. 
For  guidance  we  looked  at  John, 
but  he  was  staring  down  at  the  desk 

[35] 


THE  DESERTER 

blotter,  scratching  on  it  marks  that 
he  did  not  see. 

Finally,  where  angels  feared  to 
tread,  the  Kid  rushed  in.  "That's 
certainly  a  hard  luck  story,"  he 
said;  "but,"  he  added  cheerfully, 
"it's  nothing  to  the  hard  luck  you'll 
strike  when  you  can't  tell  why  you 
left  the  army."  Hamlin  turned  with 
an  exclamation,  but  Billy  held  up 
his  hand.  "Now  wait,"  he  begged, 
"we  haven't  time  to  get  mussy. 
At  six  o'clock  your  leave  is  up,  and 
the  troop  train  starts  back  to  camp, 
and " 

Mr.  Hamlin  interrupted  sharply. 
"And  the  Adriaticus  starts  at 
five." 

Billy  did  not  heed  him.  "You've 
got  two  hours  to  change  your  mind," 
he  said.  "That's  better  than  being 

[36] 


THE  DESERTER 

sorry  you  didn't  the  rest  of  your 
life." 

Mr.  Hamlin  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed.  It  was  a  most  un 
pleasant  laugh.  *  You're  a  fine  body 
of  men,"  he  jeered.  "America  must 
be  proud  of  you  !" 

"If  we  weren't  Americans,"  ex 
plained  Billy  patiently,  "we  wouldn't 
give  a  damn  whether  you  deserted 
or  not.  You're  drowning  and  you 
don't  know  it,  and  we're  throwing 
you  a  rope.  Try  to  see  it  that  way. 
We'll  cut  out  the  fact  that  you  took 
an  oath,  and  that  you're  breaking  it. 
That's  up  to  you.  We'll  get  down 
to  results.  When  you  reach  home, 
if  you  can't  tell  why  you  left  the 
army,  the  folks  will  darned  soon 
guess.  And  that  will  queer  every 
thing  you've  done.  When  you  come 

[37] 


THE  DESERTER 

to  sell  your  stuff,  it  will  queer  you 
with  the  editors,  queer  you  with  the 
publishers.  If  they  know  you  broke 
your  word  to  the  British  army,  how 
can  they  know  you're  keeping  faith 
with  them?  How  can  they  believe 
anything  you  tell  them?  Every 
' story'  you  write,  every  statement 
of  yours  will  make  a  noise  like  a 
fake.  You  won't  come  into  court 
with  clean  hands.  You'll  be  licked 
before  you  start. 

"Of  course,  you're  for  the  Allies. 
Well,  all  the  Germans  at  home  will 
fear  that;  and  when  you  want  to 
lecture  on  your  'Fifteen  Months  at 
the  British  Front,'  they'll  look  up 
your  record;  and  what  will  they  do 
to  you?  This  is  what  they'll  do  to 
you.  When  you've  shown  'em  your 
moving  pictures  and  say,  'Does  any 

[38] 


THE  DESERTER 

gentleman  in  the  audience  want  to 
ask  a  question?'  a  German  agent 
will  get  up  and  say,  'Yes,  I  want  to 
ask  a  question.  Is  it  true  that  you 
deserted  from  the  British  army, 
and  that  if  you  return  to  it,  they 
will  shoot  you  ? ' ' 

I  was  scared.  I  expected  the  lean 
and  muscular  Mr.  Hamlin  to  fall  on 
Billy,  and  fling  him  where  he  had 
flung  the  soggy  uniform.  But  in 
stead  he  remained  motionless,  his 
arms  pressed  across  his  chest.  His 
eyes,  filled  with  anger  and  distress, 
returned  to  the  Adriaticus. 

"I'm  sorry,"  muttered  the  Kid. 

John  rose  and  motioned  to  the 
door,  and  guiltily  and  only  too 
gladly  we  escaped.  John  followed 
us  into  the  hall.  "Let  me  talk  to 
him,"  he  whispered.  "The  boat 

[39] 


THE  DESERTER 

sails  in  an  hour.  Please  don't  come 
back  until  she's  gone." 

We  went  to  the  moving  picture 
palace  next  door,  but  I  doubt  if  the 
thoughts  of  any  of  us  were  on  the 
pictures.  For  after  an  hour,  when 
from  across  the  quay  there  came 
the  long-drawn  warning  of  a  steam 
er's  whistle,  we  nudged  each  other 
and  rose  and  went  out. 

Not  a  hundred  yards  from  us  the 
propeller  blades  of  the  Adriaticus 
were  slowly  churning,  and  the  row- 
boats  were  falling  away  from  her 
sides. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Hamlin,"  called 
Billy.  "You  had  everything  and 
you  chucked  it  away.  I  can  spell 
your  finish.  It's  'check'  for  yours." 

But  when  we  entered  our  room,  in 
the  centre  of  it,  under  the  bunch  of 

[40] 


THE  DESERTER 

electric  lights,  stood  the  deserter. 
He  wore  the  water-logged  uniform. 
The  sun  helmet  was  on  his  head. 

"Good  man!"  shouted  Billy. 

He  advanced,  eagerly  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Mr.  Hamlin  brushed  past  him. 
At  the  door  he  turned  and  glared  at 
us,  even  at  John.  He  was  not  a 
good  loser.  "I  hope  you're  satis 
fied,"  he  snarled.  He  pointed  at 
the  four  beds  in  a  row.  I  felt 
guiltily  conscious  of  them.  At  the 
moment  they  appeared  so  unneces 
sarily  clean  and  warm  and  soft. 
The  silk  coverlets  at  the  foot  of 
each  struck  me  as  being  disgrace 
fully  effeminate.  They  made  me 
ashamed. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Hamlin,  speak 
ing  slowly  and  picking  his  words, 

[41] 


THE  DESERTER 

"when  you  turn  into  those  beds 
to-night  you'll  think  of  me  in  the 
mud.  I  hope  when  you're  having 
your  five-course  dinner  and  your 
champagne  you'll  remember  my 
bully  beef.  I  hope  when  a  shell  or 
Mr.  Pneumonia  gets  me,  you'll  write 
a  nice  little  sob  story  about  the 
'brave  lads  in  the  trenches." 

He  looked  at  us,  standing  like 
schoolboys,  sheepish,  embarrassed, 
and  silent,  and  then  threw  open  the 
door.  "I  hope,"  he  added,  "you 
all  choke!" 

With  an  unconvincing  imitation 
of  the  college  chum  manner,  John 
cleared  his  throat  and  said:  "Don't 
forget,  Fred,  if  there's  anything  I 
can  do " 

Hamlin  stood  in  the  doorway 
smiling  at  us. 

[42] 


THE  DESERTER 

"There's  something  you  can  all 
do,"  he  said. 

"Yes?"  asked  John  heartily. 

"You  can  all  go  to  hell!"  said 
Mr.  Hamlin. 

We  heard  the  door  slam,  and  his 
hobnailed  boots  pounding  down  the 
stairs.  No  one  spoke.  Instead,  in 
unhappy  silence,  we  stood  staring 
at  the  floor.  Where  the  uniform 
had  lain  was  a  pool  of  mud  and 
melted  snow  and  the  darker  stains 
of  stale  blood. 


[43] 


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